You have entered the hundred chapter garden.
Eldon has begun talking to Auryn
Dark is for sleeping
"I have a garden," is what I tell her. But then, trying to find words to convey what I can clearly, vividly see -is in me- the smells, the ongoing processes, the size of things, the state of now, today, this season, and how long it took to get here and the utter impossibility of sharing all that with only my voice available, trips me up. I stammer. My hands helplessly try to form some coherent phrase. I uh about seven variations in a restless limp run-up to another sentence.
"…and a pond," is what I manage to produce.
I can hear her smile at the other end. It must be my deprived, literally confused, social synapses setting fire to my imagination, but I register this whole bundle of extra-sensory signals hovering like thunder-flies above a heated patch. I can feel more than I should. I know more than is reasonable. It's all part of my homegrown madness. Of me hallucinating a conversation in a dark room with a disembodied voice on broken equipment. But it is too good to not engage, to not quench my thirst, to not wet my shriveled tongue and soak up her presence.
"Hmm-mm," she says, "water."
I have never heard someone say the word water with a size like that. Something unblocks.
"Do you know about birds?" I ask, seizing my chance to gain some new knowledge. To interrogate a mind not mine and clearly in possession of a somewhat compatible sound library.
"I can't say I do, why?"
"A new couple has arrived. Started to build a nest, high up in the Northwest corner. One of them has this blue-green dot on their forehead, feathers with the color of spilled diesel oil, a long split tail, and they kiss each time they meet while busy creating an intricate noodle bowl to maybe soon lay some eggs, indicating they are here to stay, and might come back next year after they're done..."
I stop my rant, suddenly self-conscious, wondering why the hell this woman would even be remotely interested in the mating and nesting-behaviour of a species I do not know the name of.
"I do know what spilled diesel oil looks like," she says, "they must be lovely. Are there more birds in your garden, Eldon?"
The way she says my name. It distracts me. I forget what came before. She did tell me her name, but the interns misplaced it. The echo of the word lingers, scatters crumbs, leaves a trail. I find it where tastes are kept. The deep corridor in the back of my throat. Among the memories of savoury oatmeal cookies, and cinnamon, and chocolate and woman.
"Auryn?"
"Yes, Eldon?"
"Will you be able to call again? I mean, if you disconnect… or did you land here accidentally and this will be it when you put down the phone? I would…"
What am I doing? Practically declaring my inability to go on living without her. Lethally desperate to invite her over, to call me tomorrow. To keep the line open indefinitely. To hook her, catch her, eat her in a bed of fresh thyme and salty broth. Suck, and swallow.
"How are you holding up, Eldon?"
I sigh. I have no fucking clue.
"Okay I guess."
"Difficult times," she agrees. Most of her words linger wide and weighty. They land, then crush me.
I tear up. Can't speak for minutes.
She just sits with me. I can hear her do things with her hands. Is she writing? Doodling? She sniffs. Bare footsteps on a stone floor. For a moment, there is someone else with her in the room. I cannot find the courage to speak again.
Puddy would have loved to talk to me about the birds. She would have known their names. But when I could, when Puddy and the birds were around, I didn't notice the feathered creatures. Their fragile presence. Too busy saving what couldn't be saved. What didn't need saving.
"Shall I call you again?"
I nod and wipe my leaking nostrils. Her voice is soft and tender. As if she too knows more than is being said, more than the digital pathways allow for.
"Tomorrow morning? Would that be okay?"
I make a squeaky noise.
"Good," she says, "sleep tight."
And then she's gone.
Or was she just being polite? Glad to terminate the impending combining of strands initiated by this weird encounter? The end-of-call screen fades, and again I am in the dark. Daylight is down to zero as I crawl out of the temple. I hardly ever stay up this late, ‘till after dark. Dark is for sleeping. Dark is for not being out. Dark is dangerous. I prefer not to be outside when the stars are. Pure starlight is melancholic. It speaks of loneliness. Emptiness. Of unbridgeable gaps.
Aww, I’m falling for sweet Eldon. So vulnerable and lonely.